


A Taste of Honey

by TwisterMelody



Series: Child of Baker Street [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, Childhood, Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a family outing of sorts, Hamish's first encounter with bees doesn't quite as well as hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Honey

Sherlock stood from his usual armchair, and just as swiftly as he did so, the spot was reclaimed by a little boy bursting at the seams with energy.  
  
Hamish, at over one and a half years old by that point, seemed to have a personality of his own. He was always cheerful and excited about his surroundings and only became fussy on the rarest of occasions. As long as he was happy, healthy, and safe, it was all John and Sherlock could ever ask for.  
  
Hamish scrambled up into a corner the soft green seat, a toothy grin spreading over his face as his bare feet slid along the leather material. A young pair of eager cobalt eyes met him when Sherlock turned back to his chair. It had become an almost tradition with them - one that occurred at least once a day. Keeping an impassive face about him, Sherlock knelt down in front of the chair. His large hands enclosed around the toddler's tiny feet.  
  
"Oh, you are a clever one, aren't you?" Sherlock mumbled against his closed hands, his sharp eyes locked on Hamish who in turn widened his grin. "But," he said, releasing his feet, "that of course isn't enough to stop me." The detective's hands quickly danced up the sides of Hamish's little torso before finding just the right spot under his arms. The little boy screwed his eyes shut as squeals of laughter came pouring from him, his limbs flailing about wildly.  
  
"You know," he heard John say, "I've never known a child who actually enjoys being tickled."  
  
Sherlock stopped and the laughter came to a slow end as he stood. "Always full of surprises," he acknowledged. "Go on, Hamish, get your shoes so we can go to the park."  
  
The boy carefully slid from his chair and bounded to the other side of the living room in a frantic search. Sherlock was satisfied. Outside, autumn had arrived and the temperature was perfect for an outing of sorts. A crime had come up, a petty one at that, but still a crime that stumped the police. Someone had been defacing and even stealing from the city parks, and it was the perfect opportunity to bring Hamish along to observe.  
  
John and Sherlock had agreed before the boy was even born that he would be brought along on cases. At least, ones where it was certain he was in no danger whatsoever. Bringing him to see murder scenes or those of kidnapping firsthand were absolutely out of the question, along with any others either John or Sherlock had a gut feeling about. Their world revolved around him, and they wanted him to be with them and involved as much as possible while still staying safe. So, that's just what they did. As for Hamish, he seemed to enjoy the thrill as much as his parents did, which was no surprise to those around them.  
  
Hamish came running over to John with his shoes haphazardly gathered in his arms as he held onto a pair of black costume wings between his little round fingers.  
  
"No," John shook his head fondly and smiled as he pulled the wings away and sat them on the coffee table. "You'll get to wear those in a few days on Halloween, okay? Right now we need to get you dressed for the park."  
  
As John fiddled with putting on their son's socks, shoes, and jacket, Sherlock inspected the cheap, mass produced material of the so-called wings. "These are highly inaccurate," he muttered in complaint as he held them up.  
  
"Don't pretend for a moment that you're not entirely pleased with what he picked out," John said.  
  
Sherlock repressed a smile as he sat the wings back down in their original spot on top of the rest of the costume. The yellow stripes were bright in comparison to the black of the long sleeved shirt and trousers, and the inaccuracy of the antenna headband matched that of the wings. Still, John was right. Sherlock was pleased with Hamish's choice in costume, more than he was willing to admit.

* * *

The sunshine was overly bright as the fiery oranges and yellows of the great trees stood out in contrast to the clear blue sky. Hamish had one of each of his parents hands gathered around his own as the trio made their way through the park. The chilly air had a clean, crisp feeling to it as a glimpse of the winter to come.  
  
"Leafs!" Hamish exclaimed upon seeing the brilliant colors. "Leafs, Papa!"  
  
"And what are the leaves on?" John prompted.  
  
"Leafs on tees," Hamish beamed with a skip in his step.  
  
"And how approximately how many trees are there in this park?" Sherlock asked. Hamish whipped his head around to Sherlock. His eyebrows lowered in confusion as his mouth pulled into a line, giving Sherlock his best, 'now _you're_ the one talking gibberish' look. Sherlock tried for a new approach as they walked along the pavement. "Is the park filled with a lot of trees, or just one?"  
  
Hamish shook his head without even looking around. "Lots!" he answered enthusiastically.   
  
"Very good," Sherlock told him as he grinned down at his son, his eyes full of pride.  
  
As soon as Hamish turned to face forward again, his hands suddenly broke free of Sherlock and John as he ran forward. Instantly it was obvious as to what had caught his eye. A large flock of birds had scattered along around the pavement and fading grass in front of them, and Hamish was scampering towards them as fast as he could. His chestnut curls bounced along as he ran, the outer edges illuminated by the slowly sinking sunshine as an earthly halo.  
  
"Buhds!" he called out happily as he neared the flock. He ran through the gathering of them, and he was soon lost within a lot of flapping wings and chirping beaks. Eventually it became too much of a distraction as he tripped over his own two feet, landing on his palms and knees in the soft grass. He immediately stopped what he was doing and turned his head to face his parents as if he didn't know what to do next.  
  
"You're okay," John called out to him. "Just brush it off, you're okay."  
  
Hamish did just that, standing quickly and wiping the unseen pain that wasn't actually there away from his knees before he went on about his business.  
  
"How familiar," John commented.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Instinctively running head first into danger without worrying about the consequences," John grinned smugly at him. "I wonder where he gets that from."  
  
Sherlock smiled at him. "I know exactly where. Though, a flock of birds is hardly dangerous."  
  
John snorted. "You've obviously never seen a Hitchcock film."  
  
John and Sherlock watched him closely while John had started snapping photos of the giggling little boy with his phone. That had become a habit of John's, and he did it constantly, time and time again claiming to put the images together in an album once he found the time. Off in the distance, Sherlock could hear the shrill voices of children nearby and sought out the group of them with his eyes. He found a mixed group of boys and girls who had about seven years on Hamish, and they were rambunctiously chasing each other with no apparent adults to supervise them.  
  
John gently touched his elbow, pulling him out of his focus momentarily. "I'm just going to grab a coffee real quick, okay?"  
  
"Mm, fine," he replied, not even bothering to look in John's direction as he disappeared from his side.  
  
By that point in his life, Sherlock had mastered the art of focusing on a multitude of things at once. In his mind, he began retracing the most recent steps of the vandal, coming up with endless possibilities of where he or she may strike next. All the while he kept his eyes focused on Hamish who was still chasing after birds with a full intent to capture one, it seemed. The children in the background carried on, but Hamish was lost in his own little world. Soon, he stopped as he noticed something on the leaf covered ground, and within moments, he came bounding over to Sherlock. Hamish grabbed onto his hand and led him through to the spot he was inspecting. On their way, Sherlock came to a halt and turned his body slightly, his other hand held out in front of Hamish's chest protectively to stop him.  
  
"It's alright," he assured him as he got a confused look from his son. "It's a bee, you see, like your costume," he explained.  
  
"Bee?" he asked in wonder. He had a love for learning and a never-ending curiosity about everything he saw.  
  
"Yes, a bee," he smiled. The insect in question lazily buzzed through the air in front of him. "You have to be very careful, Hamish, or they may sting you if frightened. Though if you stay still..." he trailed off and knelt down on one knee, holding one hand in front of his own chest. The bee soon landed on Sherlock's finger and crawled along the length of it with the toddler's gaze focused on the creature. "... If you stay still, they won't hurt you," he explained. Soon enough the insect disappeared as the flock of birds reappeared under a large tree. Hamish turned to run to them again, but Sherlock stopped him.  
  
"Walk," he said lowly. "When you're older I'll show you how to camouflage yourself to go in for a surprise attack. But as for now, walk up to them and then run when you get close, alright?" Hamish nodded in agreement and practically tiptoed over to the creatures. By the time John showed up at his side with a hot cup of coffee, he broke into a sprint, giggling and blinking rapidly as feathers and leaves swirled through the air around him.  
  
"So this vandal..." John started, clearly hoping to acquire more information.  
  
Sherlock turned his attention to John who was staring at him hopefully with the steam from his cup rising into the air. "Ah, yes," he said, back on track. "It's really obvious if you think about it, John. This thieving vandal is clearly -"  
  
A few seconds. A few bloody seconds of distraction was all it had taken.  
  
A couple of dull thuds had registered somewhere in the back of Sherlock's mind as he was talking, and the fading, scurrying footsteps that followed along with it. What caught his attention, though, along with John's wasn't a sound at all; it was the dead silence that filled their ears. The moment the laughter from their child stopped, their minds did as well. In less than one second, Sherlock and John read each other's faces and swiftly turned back to where Hamish was, and Sherlock instantly froze.  
  
Hamish was standing entirely too still with his eyes wide and pleading at his parents, his small body trembling with fear. The scene played out in Sherlock's head; The rambunctious children playing around the tree, the dull thud of a rock followed by a beehive hitting the ground, and the running footsteps all pieced themselves together in one seamless moment. There were bees angrily storming out of their disturbed hive and heading directly for Hamish, an ominous dark buzzing cloud nearly engulfing the space around him.  
  
The cup of coffee splashed across the grass as it fell from John's hand as he took off. He was running not towards Hamish, Sherlock realized, but towards the hive to serve as a distraction. Without thinking, Sherlock tore away his thick wool coat and ran straight into the swarming insects to Hamish. In the blink of an eye he had his son gathered in his arms with his coat pulled over and around him to serve as protection, and John was soon trailing behind as they sprinted through the park for shelter from the angered creatures.  
  
Finding himself at one of the cafes in the park, the detective barged through the doors, ignoring the loud gasps of the guests in the place. Kneeling down to the floor, he speedily peeled off his coat from around Hamish, letting it pool around his feet.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked in demand, his hands frantically searching him over. No answer came from him. It was when his eyes met his chest that he realized, no, he wasn't alright at all. The young toddler was gasping, taking in rapid, shallow breaths, and it was obvious he wasn't getting enough air.  
  
Before he had time to react or even think, John came bursting in through the door behind them.  
  
"Is he - oh Jesus, no," he groaned, the words shattering as they passed his lips. With his soldier mode in place, John practically shoved a shocked Sherlock out of the way and carefully laid Hamish on on the hard floor. "It's going to be okay," he told him over their son's wheezing breaths, probably not certain if he believed it himself. His head shot up as he peered around the cafe. "Has anyone got epinephrine?" he called out. There were a few whispers and mumbles, but nothing more. John grit his teeth and muttered something under his breath as he unzipped Hamish's jacket. "Sherlock, I need you to..."  
  
Sherlock's phone was already being brought up to his ear as John trailed off, refocusing his energy on the emergency at hand. Sherlock barked the problem into the mobile phone, and there was nothing more he could do. He watched John closely as the horrified panic suddenly swept through him with a vengeance. Carefully john had elevated the boy's legs off the ground as the phrase 'anaphylactic shock' weaved through Sherlock's mind as a possibility. John, however, kept his composure and cooed over Hamish, reassuring him in a gentle way that he was fine over and over again. With Sherlock's silence, John shot him a dark look, one that said, 'I need you here. With me. Now. Focus.' If either one of them had begun to panic, he realized, Hamish would follow their example.   
  
The swelling of his right hand gave away the source of the problem. Sherlock immediately took over John's position at their son's feet as the good doctor fumbled through his wallet for a card. As John scraped away at the dark stinger embedded in the top of his hand, Sherlock wanted to scream. How could John manage to be so much calmer at a time like this? Of course, he was a doctor after all, but this was their son. Hamish's frantic and uneven attempts at breaths were impossible to ignore as well as his face, reddened and pulled up into a mixture of confusion, pain, and fear. He had never felt more helpless. This wasn't supposed to happen, not now, not ever.  
  
Sirens and screeching tires filled the air moments before paramedics came rushing though, nearly barreling Sherlock out of the way. He moved quickly and ducked down next to John who was steadily holding Hamish's uninjured left hand between both of his own. As the emergency epinephrine was administered, Hamish's faced balled up as if he wanted to cry, but just couldn't.  
  
"I know, I know," John murmured gently as he kissed his hand. "It's okay, Hamish. Daddy and I are here, you're okay."  
  
Time had come to an odd crawl among the flurry of the ambulance and commotion in the hospital. There were tests to be done and x-rays to be taken, and little Hamish was to be kept under close observation for a few long hours, just in case. Hamish never spoke a word during the whole ordeal which in itself was a bit worrying. Neither Sherlock nor John left his side for even a moment, refusing to let him out of their sight. Sherlock was torturing himself. He should have seen, should have _known_ right off the bat what those children were playing at. If only he could reverse time! Such a concept was completely illogical, but in that moment, he wished more than anything for it to be true. He would quite literally go to the ends of the earth if it meant protecting his family, but on this day, he had failed.  
  
Night had already set in by the time they were given the OK to go back home. John got himself and Hamish into the awaiting taxi, and Sherlock timidly stood next to the open door.  
  
"Sherlock?" John asked carefully.  
  
"I'll be home in a bit, need to do something," he told him.  
  
The look John shot him was thunderous, even more so under the circumstances of the day. He knew John hated when he rushed off like that without telling him anything, especially since the last time he had done so, well... There was no need to lament on the past now. "Okay," John eventually breathed. "Okay." The door was shut and the taxi took off down the road, carrying in it the two people he cared about the most.  
  
What he need to do was _think,_ to get his mind to do what he should have been... Oh, it was going nowhere. He walked around a while, eventually deciding to show up at the Yard to string together the pieces of their thieving vandal. Dissatisfied even after it was done and over, he found that what he really needed to do, in spite of himself, was to get home to his family. 221B welcomed him with it's usual warmth soon enough. Upon entering the living room, John and Hamish were found reading upon the hardwood floor, Hamish's back turned to him.  
  
John glanced up at Sherlock's figure in a glare at first, but his gaze softened immediately. John understood what Sherlock needed, and he wasn't angry. Instead, he was more than understanding. John paused in his reading and nudged the toddler next to him. "Hamish," he said, "your Dad's home."  
  
Sherlock waited. Always when he came home, there would be a quick pattering of little feet and a small body colliding into his legs with a tight hug and a smile, _always_. On this night, however, Hamish merely turned and glanced at Sherlock with an uninterested and indifferent look before going back to his book. John shrugged, and Sherlock slid off his coat before trudging into the bedroom.  
  
The mattress groaned as he perched himself on the edge of it, his hands falling into their usual steepled position at the ends of his lips. He closed his eyes. The never-ending thought of 'I've let him down' echoed across the walls of his head with nowhere to go, a boomerang of one thought over and over with no end in sight. The room suddenly felt warmer, and when he opened his eyes, Hamish was there. The toddler stood silently in front of him with a soft expression, his arms stretched outward with his hands opening and closing in an obvious want. Sherlock hooked his hands under his arms and immediately pulled him up and brought the both of them to the living room.  
  
If someone were to say to him a decade ago that he would be a parent, and a caring one at that, Sherlock would have scoffed at it. His own childhood and self-proclaimed sociopathic ways, he would have thought, would derail any possibility of that ever happening. But now as sat on the sofa with his son is his lap, his left side pressed in close to his chest, he could never imagine not having him, or what he'd do without him.  
  
"They managed to get me as well," he said as gingerly as he could manage. Sherlock's sleeves were already rolled up, and he held out his forearm to show him the smattering of stings there. The boy's finger came up and traced over the red marks. Thankfully, Hamish had only been stung once, but once was one time too many. Of course, they had no way of knowing what would happen, no allergy tests had been taken, but that didn't change a thing.  
  
"May I?" he asked gently as he held up Hamish's right hand in his left for inspection. His hand was still swollen, but nowhere near as badly as it was, and a colorful plaster covered the injury of the sting. John and the doctors had assured him that he would be fine, but he would only believe so with his own eyes. "Oh, but you're the brave one," he spoke softly against the top of his mop of curls, his deep voice vibrating in a comforting way. His thumb lightly stroked over the top of his hand while avoiding the plaster.  
  
"You faced an entire army by yourself today, you know. Brave and incredibly smart, you did exactly what I told you to. Though, I should have mentioned the logic doesn't apply to swarms..." Hamish made an incoherent noise and snuggled in closer to Sherlock's chest. "I am sorry, Hamish," he told him sadly. "Incredibly sorry," he repeated as he kissed the edge of his temple. Hamish ducked his head below Sherlock's chin, and Sherlock pulled his left arm around his body. "It's alright now," he murmured as he stroked his right hand though his hair soothingly, "it's alright."  
  
Hamish eventually nodded off to sleep against his chest, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to move.  
  
"Still hasn't said a word since the park," came John's voice from the entrance of the room as he moved closer. "I think it's just been a long day for him, though. Should be fine tomorrow."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"Me?" he questioned, sitting down next to him.  
  
Sherlock pulled one of John's arms into view, carefully unbuttoning the shirt sleeve with one hand. Pulling the material up, bee stings that matched his own arm came into view on John's. "I see you didn't manage to escape uninjured either. 'Instinctively running head first into danger without thinking of the consequences,' you said."  
  
"Yes. Well." A corner of John's mouth tugged upward for a brief second as he rebuttoned his sleeve. "Anyway, I'm fine, he's fine - or rather, he will be come morning. But what about you?" he asked as he turned sideways on the sofa to face him. He propped his head up with one of his hands, the edge of the sofa supporting his elbow. "You have this fascination with them, and you've only mentioned about a thousand times how much you want to keep bees when the time comes."  
  
Sherlock turned his head away from John and focused on Hamish who was sound asleep against him. He hadn't given it any thought whatsoever, but there was no need for it. The answer was clear. He hugged Hamish a bit tighter. "I would never do anything to deliberately put him in harm's way, John, no matter the cause," he stated, his voice wobbling at the thought. "I could never..."  
  
"I know," John breathed as his comforting hand found it's way through to Sherlock's hair, "I know."

* * *

Pulled out of his experiment at the microscope, Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together as he assessed the goings on in front of him. "What are you doing?"  
  
Hamish didn't answer him. The sunlight streaming in through the windows clearly showed the look of determination written across his features as he dragged his Halloween costume over to the bin. His height, or rather lack of, left him at a great disadvantage when it came to disposing of the material, though. He grunted as he glared at the bin.  
  
Sherlock walked over and picked him up, resting his body on one of his hips. "What are you doing?" he asked again.  
  
Hamish frowned as he pointed at the costume on the floor. "Bad," he said, "bee bad, Daddy."  
  
If not to keep his dignity, Sherlock's face surely would have fallen at the implication. "No," he attempted to argue. That train of thought came to a screeching halt when he saw the look of hurt flash across the toddler's face. He tried for a new approach. "Bees aren't bad," he tried to explain. "Although, in your case, you must stay away from them to avoid injury. Or course, they could injure anyone, but with you..."  
  
He couldn't finish his sentence with Hamish glaring at him the way he was, his blue eyes narrowed and lips pressed firmly together. He could hear the contradictions in his own head, 'they hurt people, they're especially dangerous to you, but they're not bad.' No wonder why he wasn't understanding. He groaned and put him back down on the floor. A difficult thing it was sometimes, trying to reason with young children. He knelt down to be eye level with him and held his shoulders lightly.  
  
"Bees are important," he stated. "Though can sting us, they usually don't unless they're scared, you see," he attempted to explain as Hamish listened intently. "Our world would be affected in an immensely negative way if they were all to disappear. In fact..." His knees clicked as he stood up and opened a nearby cupboard.  
  
"Here," Sherlock said as he knelt down again with the item between his hands. Hamish came closer to inspect the jar as Sherlock unscrewed the top and sat it aside. "This is honey," he clarified, realizing that Hamish had never had it before at his age. The boy peered over the top of the jar and then up to Sherlock as if waiting for a further explanation. "It's really very good. Do you want to try it?" Hamish's pink tongue darted out at the question. "Bees make it," Sherlock stated.  
  
Immediately, Hamish's eyes widened at the new information as his face fell into a worried frown. "No," he nearly whimpered, shaking his head frantically as he backed away from the jar. "Bee bad!"  
  
Sherlock sat the opened jar down on the hardwood floor and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.  
  
"What are you trying to do?" John called from the living room.  
  
Sherlock walked towards him. "I'm trying to make him unafraid!"  
  
"And you're doing _wonderfully_ ," John replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Sherlock glared at him. "Look, he's just a child, and he got a pretty bad scare yesterday. You've got to let him come to understand these things on his own terms."  
  
"He wasn't scared before," he pointed out. His shoulders slumped slightly. "I'm trying to fix what I did, John."  
  
John reached out and took his wrist in a light, reassuring grasp. "You didn't do anything."  
  
 _Then why does it feel as though I have?_ He sighed. "There are many things on this earth that could hurt him, I've come to realize." He paused momentarily, biting down on his lip as he searched for words. "I don't want him to be afraid of the world around him, John. I want him to be forever curious, I want him to be informed of the possibilities of everything he comes into contact with, I want him to be -"  
  
"Messy?"  
  
Sherlock lowered his brows in confusion. "What?" John crossed his arms and smiled softly, inclining his head forward with a small nod. Sherlock turned to follow his line of vision and his eyebrows instantly rose in both surprise and relief.  
  
With stubbornness coming from both sides of the family, it should have been no surprise as to what Hamish would be up to with the attention taken away from him.  
  
With his Halloween costume surrounding him, Hamish sat on the hardwood floor, his left hand shoved into the jar of honey between his legs. His tongue stuck out and upwards from one corner of his lips as his eyebrows knitted together in pure concentration. After a moment or two of seemingly realizing what needed to be done, he slowly lifted his hand out of the container. Thick, golden honey warmly glinted in the early afternoon light as it dripped down his arm and past his elbow, but Hamish paid no attention to the mess.  
  
He lifted his hand to inspect the gooey substance for a moment, and then without warning, he promptly shoved his coated sickly sweet fingers into his mouth. Seeming to enjoy the taste, he repeated the process over and over before finally looking up at his parents. Honey covered his face, part of his body and outfit, and not to mention bits of the floor by the time he realized he was caught. His reaction, of course, was just as priceless. All he could do was giggle, the light returning to his eyes with his fingers partially left in his mouth - the perfect image of childhood innocence.  
  
"I was going to say _happy_ ," Sherlock murmured with a grin at the sight that presented itself in front of them. John, predictable as ever, was already snapping a photo of the incident. "But I suppose the two could be interchangeable."  
  
"I'm glad you seem to think so," John said as he moved in beside him, "because you're going to be the one to clean this up." John leaned down with his hands bracing his knees. "What do you say, Hamish? Do you still want to be a bee?" Hamish nodded in delight. "And is that honey good?"  
  
"Uh-huh," came his half-hearted reply as he was too busy licking away at his fingertips.  
  
John stood back up, crossing his arms again before inclining his head to the side. "Maybe we should dress him as a yellow bear for Halloween instead."  
  
"Why on earth would we do that?"  
  
John laughed as he shook his head fondly. "No reason at all."  
  
It would take time, of course, for the boy to understand the importance of the events of the day before. Their busy little bee was perfectly alright, as he proved a few days later while gathering half of his body weight in sweets. He was back to his usual fearless self, taking on the world head first. A taste of honey was all it had taken to set things right again. Life was indeed sweet for all in 221B Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> Had to throw in a bit of pain (quite literally for poor Hamish) in the midst of my fluff fest. There will probably be more of that as he grows older in this series. But, never fear, the next part will part will probably be overly sweet :)


End file.
